Hard Day

Posted by VERITAS
… a day when the slightest imperfection, in myself or my environment, starts to feel intolerable; when, once home, I find myself attempting to do everything — from pouring water into a mug and drinking from the mug to plugging in my iPhone’s charger cable and attaching it to my iPhone to spreading almond butter on carrot sticks and eating the almond-buttered sticks — with the slowness, deliberation, and concentration of Thích Nhất Hạnh practicing mindfulness movement … seeking inner calm … acceptance of the way things are in all their imperfection …

… or does the way I’m performing such movement lack an essential degree of inner calm and border on a control-freakish obsession with not wanting to create any further imperfection … ?

Bitch Dom Birth Canal

Posted by VERITAS
Hey, Bitch Dom; yo, my main woman!  What it is!  What’s the word!
Got a question for ya:
Why, in my fantasies, do we frequently seem to meet at the entrance of a hallway – the front hallway of your digs, down which you often lead me collared – i.e., attached  to you – by a silver chain umbilical-cord-like in its slippery smoothness?
Do these fantasies involve some sort of return to the womb, with your digs, by their layout, providing the wombspace-like venue for their occurrence?


Posted by VERITAS
Footsteps of people going by on the street outside … sound of a jet flying overhead … ensconced in my writer’s cave (my apartment has no windows save a handful of small, frosted ones — wafers of filtered light), I shut off the Internet, un-display my computer’s clock, and try to get into the zone, enter the realm of the short story I’m working on …

Dream of the Old and New

Posted by VERITAS
Dreamed that a place — a building — I had long used, in dreams, as a refuge was being reformed, with the result that I wouldn’t be able to use it any longer, so I was trying to decide what things to take from it to my actual home, that could be still used. Some things were (too) broken (e.g., chipped bowls) or dirty (e.g.., towels soiled by a pet cocker spaniel my family had when I and my siblings were still kids; actually, my sister’s dog as the dog, when it was still a small puppy, was given to my sister as a birthday present when she was about three, four, or five years old — I can’t recall precisely) to take, so I decided to leave them — leave them on the first (already renovated?) floor of the refuge where there were some young, brand-new looking teenagers to whom I said jokingly, “You guys aren’t real!” Because they looked too perfect! They laughed and took it as a joke.

(I do recall I and my brother keeping the cocker spaniel puppy in the second floor loft where we slept in two alcoves the night before my sister was presented with the puppy as a birthday present.  I recall going into my sister’s room, holding the puppy with one hand behind my back, then bringing the puppy into view and holding it out to her as, I believe, I said, “Happy Birthday!”  I recall my sister’s delight.)